


Sacrifice

by insanechayne



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies), Saw (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Torture is a hell of a lot of fun to write, Yes I'm an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:40:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insanechayne/pseuds/insanechayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Live or die, Saints. Make your choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monica/gifts).



> I'll start off by saying that I know I'm a horrible person and I freely embrace this.   
> So my dad and I watched Saw: The Final Chapter (Saw 7 for those keeping track) again, and in case you didn't know that one features the lovely Sean Patrick Flanery, a.k.a Connor in BDS. And during the whole fucking movie my dad was making jokes about Murphy popping up and slapping Sean in the face with that slab of meat for being a lying dickweed in Saw. He literally said, in a bad Irish accent, "your brother's gonna kick yer ass for lyin', Sean." And I could not stop fucking laughing.  
> Anyway, I was relating all of this to Monica earlier today, and we had like this mutual epiphany or something and she looked at me and said "I smell a crossover fic." And at first I was totally against it, because I've got a shit ton of other stuff I should be working on, but then the idea grew on me. So we talked it out and hammered out most of the details and now here we are with this lovely piece of shit.   
> So I do hope you enjoy this crossover, regardless of how horrible the story matter is.

Connor wakes first, his eyes slowly blinking open. A flare of pain shoots through his forehead, something he swears he can feel flowing into his retinas, and he quickly closes his eyes once more. The pain doesn’t lessen, however, and he needs to see where he is as much as he needs air to breathe.

He opens his eyes once more, forcing himself not to close them as he slowly adjusts to the light and the skull-splitting throbbing inside of his head. He raises his head, trying to gain some perspective, and feels a rough tugging at his throat. Something is wrapped around his neck, locking him into place, and much as he struggles all it does is cause the edges of the strap to bite into his flesh.

As the rest of his body slowly comes into awareness he realizes that he is in a standing position, though all of his weight is leaning against whatever is behind him. His arms are outstretched like Christ on the cross, and two straps are looped over both of his wrists. Another strap encircles his waist too tightly, ensuring that he will not be able to escape and making it somewhat difficult for him to breathe.

He swallows roughly as a new thought slams into his mind: where is Murphy? He raises his head again, turning it in every direction he possibly can to scan the entirety of the dark place he is trapped in.

Suddenly a light goes on in the ceiling, basking a spot about fifteen feet away from him in its pale, dim glow. Under that spotlight stands Murphy, arms outstretched the same as Connor’s, the straps wrapped around him in the same places.

Now that Connor can see the device he and his twin are stuck to with a bit more clarity, he sees that it’s something similar to an Iron Maiden, one of those torture devices from way back in the day that had spikes protruding from the entirety of its inside, meant to encase the poor soul shoved inside of it like a coffin while killing them.

The only difference here is that only the tops of their thighs are strapped down to the device, while their legs from the knees down have been left free to move about. The back of the device even stops right about where the backs of their knees do, sloping down into a long metal bar connecting it to the concrete floor.

In front of them both is a large red button with a white “X” painted over it, and Connor knows that the reason their legs have been left relatively free has something to do with those buttons.

Murphy appears to be sleeping, or unconscious, still, but to Connor he looks dead, and that terrifies him to his core. He needs to see Murphy’s bright blue eyes, even laced with the anger and fear he knows will be present when his twin realizes the gravity of their situation. Connor needs to see Murphy alive and breathing, and that will be enough to get him through this; they’ve overcome many trials together, and this one will be no different.

“Murph!” Connor shouts, his voice hoarse and his throat feeling raw. He takes a moment to clear his throat before trying again. “Murphy, ye need t’ wake up!”

Murphy flinches slightly, as if he’d been startled from a dream. He shakes his head, letting out a curse when he finds just how painful that simple motion is. After a moment he manages to raise his head, his eyes locking onto Connor’s.

“Conn? Where are we?” Murphy asks, sounding like a lost little boy, and Connor’s heart shatters in his chest.

“I – I don’t know, Murph. But we’re gonna find a way outta this, ye hear me? Just focus on me, Murph; ye just focus on Connor now, ye hear me?” Connor turns his head to look at the straps on his wrists, watching the way they move, or rather don’t move, as he tugs against them.

Connor tries to push his body forward, but all that does is cause the strap around his waist to dig into his torso even more painfully, and knocks the breath out of his lungs in one swift whoosh. Connor pants and coughs, trying to get his breath back.

“Conn, ‘m scared.” Murphy mumbles quietly, his voice barely loud enough for Connor to hear him.

“Me too, Murph.” Connor lets himself admit this, lets himself release this fear.

He wants to remain strong for his brother, wants to act like the hero who never shows any emotion besides righteous fury and a love for justice, but he is afraid. Lying about that fear won’t make it go away, won’t lessen it by any amount, but somehow releasing it, admitting to it, helps expel it from his body. And though he is completely terrified by the situation they now find themselves in he has faith that God will bring them through it together.

Suddenly another light flickers to light, this one directly in between the two captive twins. It shines a small circle on the concrete floor, a spotlight waiting for its performer. The sound of something squeaking fills the room, and soon enough a small doll on a tricycle comes into view in the center of the light. It’s an ugly looking thing in a black tuxedo, its skin perfectly white save for the red, target symbols on its cheeks. It has a mop of jet black hair that falls to its little shoulders, a grin is etched onto features. The tricycle it rides is a deep, dark red; it is the color of blood.

The twins stare incredulously at the doll, wondering if it will hold the key to their survival.

And then its head jerks back, its face perfectly skyward, and the boys swear that the red eye closest to them locks onto them with the precision of a sharp shooter. It opens its mouth, and begins to speak.

_“Hello, Saints. Over the years you have killed scores of men with the claim that God has sent you on His mission, but have failed to see the error of your ways. ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?’ Matthew 7:1-3._

_“You are both strapped into what I have deemed the Iron Cross. Every twenty seconds for the next five minutes a spike will protrude from the back of the device that you are in and pierce through a piece of your flesh, the final one going straight through your heart, unless you push the red button in front of you. Upon pushing that button the spikes on the other person’s device will extend all at one time, killing them and leaving you free._

_“In the battle of wills who will endure the most pain before they break? Does your loyalty lie in your brother, or in yourself? Will you pluck the mote from your brother’s eye, or first try to remove the beam from your own?_

_“As you have judged others now you shall also be judged. Live or die, Saints. Make your choice.”_

An ominous mechanical laughing filled the room, the sound of a clock ticking following immediately after it.

“What the fuck are we gonna do, Connor?!” Murphy shouted, his voice wavering slightly. His eyes darted between the doll and Connor, pure terror bouncing around the blue waters.

“We’re gonna get through this, Murph, a’right! Now what I want ye to do is reach out and press that button, Murphy, before these devices turn on.” A lone tear tracked down Connor’s face as he spoke the words, knowing that if what the doll had said was true he would die and never see Murphy again.

“Are ye fuckin’ crazy?! I ain’t pushin’ that thing, Connor! I’m not gonna kill ye like that; I wouldn’t be able to live wit’out ye. So you gotta push your own button; kill me an’ save yerself.” Murphy was full on crying, waterfalls pouring down his face as he stared at his brother.

Connor was just about to reply when the first spike pushed through the back of his left hand. He screamed in pain, his cries mingling with Murphy’s as his own device pushed a spike through his right hand. And through the pain Connor could see how fitting it was that the first hit should come to the hands that held their ‘veritas’ and ‘aequitas’ tattoos, the hands that held the guns they killed many a criminal with as they recited their prayer.

Blood flowed from the wounds, warm and wet and slick against their palms and fingers, dripping onto the floor with soft pattering sounds. Connor clenched his jaw against the pain, reminding himself once more to remain strong, for Murphy.

“Jesus Christ, Connor, just push the fucking button!” Murphy screamed, his voice cracking on the last word.

Murphy couldn’t take the sight of Connor suffering that way, couldn’t stand to see his twin bleeding and crying and in pain. He knew this was only the first of many to come, and that each one would hurt worse than this until it finally killed them both, and he couldn’t bear to watch Connor go out that way; Connor deserved better than some torturous death in a dark, horrifying place with a creepy puppet laughing maniacally in front of them.

“Lord’s fuckin’ name, Murph.” Connor tried to tease, forcing his lips to curve up into a slight smirk even as the rest of his face fell from the pain. “And ‘m not gonna push that damn button on ye, Murphy. Yer gonna have to push it on me.”

The next spike came through, forcing its way through their opposite hands this time, sending them both to screaming once more. Tears dripped onto the floor beside blood and mingled together, doing nothing to wash the red away.

“Connor, please” Murphy begged, his voice barely loud enough for him to hear himself.

Sweat beaded Connor’s brow, his jaw still clenched tightly, his face reddening as he tried desperately to control himself. Tears clouded his vision and he frantically blinked them away; he needed to see his brother’s face, the face he had seen every minute of every day since birth. He cleared his throat, holding back a sob, before speaking. “No, Murphy.”

The two stared at each other for a few seconds, both of them silently pleading with the other to just push the button and end it all, get it over with, both of them silently refusing the other’s offer.

The third spike shoved its way into their forearms, Connor’s left and Murphy’s right, breaking their reveries. Screams filled their ears, their own and their twin’s, along with the sound of Murphy’s ragged sobs.

Connor’s chest heaved as he gasped for breath, throwing up quiet prayers to the Lord above that He would pull them through this, that He would make Murphy see the light and just press that button already.

Soon enough he was able to look at Murphy again, the pain he felt at seeing his brother in such a way so much worse than what the device he was strapped to was able to bring him.

“Ye can make all the pain go away, Murph. Ye can end it all an’ save yerself from it. Just push the button, brother. It’ll be quick fer me if it’s all at once.” Connor pleaded with his twin once more, hoping this time the stubborn bastard would just _listen._

“I can’t, Connor. I can’t kill ye. Use yer own argument against yerself an’ do it for me instead.”

But Connor was shaking his head before Murphy had even finished his sentence. He wouldn’t press that button, no matter what Murphy said.

The fourth spike pierced through their opposite forearms, and Murphy’s scream was choked off by his sobbing. He sputtered and coughed, almost unable to catch his breath.

“It’ll kill us both if ye don’t press the button, Connor.” Murphy finally managed to say, his words hitching with every new sob that wracked his throat.

“Aye, an’ it’ll do the same if ye don’t press it either. An’ maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be, Murph. Maybe neither of us are supposed to go wit’out the other. We were always s’posed t’ go together.” Connor’s eyes brightened with this new revelation.

Yes, they were supposed to go together, not one without the other. Whoever had brought them here wanted to make them choose, their own life for their brother’s; whoever had done this thought he could break them. But Connor and Murphy’s bond was too strong to be broken by a few minutes of pain, agonizing though it was. Connor would never push that button on Murphy, just as Murphy would never press that button on Connor, regardless of how much the other begged and pleaded and tried to reason.

Because they loved each other far too much to just let them go like that, just to save themselves from pain. This pain was nothing compared to what life without their twin would be like, and neither brother could bear something of that magnitude; they’d rather die themselves than let that happen.

And Murphy realized it, too, because the next time his eyes locked onto Connor’s he nodded. They would suffer, but they would endure, and in the end they would die, but they would go together.

The next three minutes and forty seconds were pure hell, the sounds of the other’s screams the only thing able to take either brother away from their own pain. Connor gave up his tough façade and let himself cry, let himself sob with his twin.

Connor cried not just from the pain, but from the mission he and Murphy would now be leaving unfulfilled. He cried for the life they were leaving behind, for the work they had done, and the legacy they were leaving behind. They would be remembered, and maybe that would be enough.

Fourteen spikes were now protruding from their bodies: one in each hand, one in each forearm, one in each bicep, two just above their collar bones, four in the lower parts of their torsos, and one in each thigh. The fifteenth would be the one to pierce through their hearts and silence them forever.

The clock continued to tick down from somewhere they couldn’t see, the only sound to mark their final moments.

“I’ll see you in a minute, Murphy.” Connor smiled weakly, the only gesture he had enough energy left for.

“Aye, Connor.” Murphy returned the smile, his eyes completely clouded by his tears.

A loud, long beeping noise filled the air around them, as when a heartbeat flat-lines. The spikes pushed through their backs, into their hearts, and out of their sternums, effectively ending their lives.

The Saints had made their choice.


End file.
